


manner of giving

by eliotkeats



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Fluff, Gift Giving, M/M, Satedan Culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-20 05:41:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10656072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eliotkeats/pseuds/eliotkeats
Summary: “Ooh, looks like our Doctor’s being courted,” Laura says with a smirk.“What? No!  What?” Carson sputters, blushing.





	manner of giving

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TwoMenAndAGuava (drakkynfyre47)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drakkynfyre47/gifts).



> love you, dude

Carson guesses Ronon is a little touch-starved.  Seven years running with only minimal human interaction would be enough to drive most people batty, and Ronon’s emerged from that surprisingly emotionally and mentally intact, so it makes sense that Ronon is...well...touchy-feely.  

So when they’re offworld and Ronon prowls over and props his elbow on Carson’s shoulder, Carson chalks it up as a cross Ronon wanting some human contact, and one of those manly affection things military men seem to be so into.

Besides, the pressure of Ronon’s forearm at the crook of Carson’s neck isn’t unpleasant, so he doesn’t shrug him off.  It’s...rather nice.  

But then Ronon puts what feels like _his entire weight_ on Carson’s shoulder as he leans in to look at Carson’s tablet, and Carson can’t stop his knees from buckling a little at the unexpected pressure.  

“Hey, buddy, how ‘bout you don’t squish our chief medical officer?” John says easily, arms folded over the butt of his P-90.  “We kinda need him.”

Carson catches a glimpse of Ronon’s brilliant grin out of the corner of his eye, then Ronon grips Carson by the back of his neck, like a kitten, and shakes him gently before releasing him and heading off to pester Mckay.  

“Is he always like this?” Carson asks John.

John’s looking after Ronon, eyebrows raised.  “Yeah, pretty much so.”

  


Once Ronon’s settled into Atlantis, Carson sees him around a lot more; in the gateroom, the infirmary, and the mess hall.  Ronon is big, and muscly, but you can only watch a man steal John Sheppard’s not-potato wedges and Rodney Mckay’s jello so many times before he ceases to be intimidating.

Ronon usually greets him or pats him on the back when he sees him, and on one memorable, early morning occasion, goes in for a somewhat groggy side hug that Carson is sure bruised some of his ribs, so Carson tends to assume that they’re, if not friends, at least friendly.  After all, Ronon seems to like him well enough, and Carson likes him back.  He’s easy-going and far easier for Carson to talk to than most of the marines, despite Ronon’s somewhat stoic image in the eyes of the majority of Atlantis’s population

 

 

“Ronon!” Carson calls, when he spots Ronon in the hallway.  

Ronon stops and waits for Carson to catch up with him.  “Something wrong, Doc?”

Carson shakes his head, a little breathless, and holds out what he’d been meaning to give Ronon, since he’d found it in a marketplace on an off-world mission.  It’s a leather knife sheath, smooth and well-oiled.  The design tooled into the dark leather is simple but beautiful, Carson thinks.

Ronon stares at it, then takes it with an unreadable expression and looks at Carson.  “What’s this?”

Carson gestures to it.  “A gift.”

“Why?”

Carson feels his face warming up at the interrogation.  A pair of botanists makes their way around Ronon and Carson, and Carson casts around for something to say.  He finally lamely says, “Rodney was complaining about you doing the knives and hair thing again.”  He gestures at Ronon’s dreadlocks, currently tied back from Ronon’s face with a braided leather cord.  “I assumed you could use another place to store a blade.”

Ronon grins at that, then laughs aloud, then picks Carson up in a bear hug — Carson’s feet leave the ground for a few seconds — and practically squeezes the breath out of him before dropping him back on his feet.  “Thanks, Doc,” he said.

Carson is too busy trying to recover his breath to react much besides flopping his hand in the air a couple times, as if to indicate “no trouble it was my pleasure oh lord I think I’m dying.”

Grinning, Ronon claps him on the shoulder, which is painful, and then walks away in the direction of the mess hall.

Once Carson can breathe again, he shakes his head and heads in the same direction.  It had been a significantly more extreme reaction than he’d been expecting, but well, Ronon probably hasn’t received a gift in years.  Ronon may have given him an unintentional spinal adjustment, but Carson feels relaxed, and a little happier, like Ronon squeezed the tension right out of him.  He starts humming as he walks.

  


Two days later, John walks into Carson’s office and greets him with a little wave.

Carson starts to shove his rolling chair back.  “Is someone hurt?  They didn’t call me.”  

“Relax.  Ronon wanted me to give this to you.”  John holds out a shallow bowl containing a small, fuzzy plant; green throughout, but brick red at the edges of the wide leaves.  “I don’t know what it is, but...”

“He was telling me about this the other day!  Apparently the spores act as a anti-allergen when treated with—”  Carson breaks off with a sheepish laugh and takes the plant from John.  “I’m sorry, thank you, colonel.  But why didn’t Ronon bring it himself?”

John shrugs and tucks his hands into his front pockets.  “Dunno.  Maybe he wanted to take a nap after the mission.”  

Carson nods, a little hurt, but understanding.  “Did things go well?”

John grins.  “We’re going back to the planet with Elizabeth tomorrow to draw a trade agreement.”  He glances over his shoulder and then jerks his thumb at the door.  “Uh, I’ve gotta—”

“Important colonel duties, I’m sure.”  Carson smiles and holds up the plant.  “Thanks for the delivery.  I’ll have to remember to thank Ronon.”

  


AR-1 is kept busy on off-world missions for the next several days, and in a rare streak of luck, no one ends up in the infirmary after any one of their missions; Carson doesn’t get a chance to speak with Ronon, but honestly he’s so glad that for once AR-1 isn’t acting as a danger magnet that he doesn’t particularly _care_.

Ronon swings into the infirmary unexpectedly one afternoon and makes a beeline for Carson, who is just turning away from checking a sargeant’s IV line.

“Oh, Ronon, I’ve been meaning to—” Carson begins, startled.

“Wanna go fishing tomorrow?” Ronon interrupts him.  “Elizabeth gave us tomorrow off.”  

“I’d, um, love to go fishing with you,” Carson says, after recovering from his surprise.  “You’ve never expressed much of an interest in fishing before?”  

Ronon reddens slightly.  “Fishing’s cool,” he says, defensive.  “You fly a puddlejumper?”

“Well...yes...” Carson admits.

Ronon grins.  “Cool.  Pick you up after breakfast.”  He heads out of the infirmary before Carson can gather his wits about him enough to reply.

By the time Carson manages to call “Wait, Ronon!”, Ronon has already vanished down the hallway, and doesn’t respond.

Carson sighs, shakes his head, and replaces the sargent’s medical chart at the foot of the bed.  Strange.  

 

 

The spot Ronon takes him to is a ways back in the woods on the mainland, and Carson doesn’t trust his flying skills enough to attempt to land in the clearing near the river, so they set down on the widest area on the coastline and spend almost an hour trekking through the trees before they reach the spot one of the Athosians told Ronon about.  

Carson’s glad they came so early in the morning; mist is still rising off the damp earth, and it’s cool enough under the spreading boughs of the trees that the hike is bearable, even with all the fishing paraphernalia Carson is lugging.

The river is worth the walk, and so are the fish.  

Ronon rolls up the cuffs of his pants and wades out into the river while Carson watches.  He ends up catching a large, rainbow-scaled fish with his _hands_ , which may be one of the most intimidating and emasculating things Carson has ever witnessed, and then throws it onto the bank near Carson, who barely manages to keep his footing in his scramble to avoid getting slapped in the face with a still writhing, foot-and-a-half long fish.

Five hours later, they fly back to Atlantis with seven fish in Carson’s ice box, already gutted and cleaned by Ronon on a river rock, and a certain sense of satisfaction in Carson’s heart.  Ronon seems pleased as well.

He thanks Ronon afterwards, when he’s lugging the ice box towards the kitchens.  

“No problem, Doc,” Ronon says, slapping him on the shoulder.  He grins when Carson winces, and takes the ice box from him.  

“You don’t have to—” Carson starts to protest.

“S’okay, I gotta tell the guys in the kitchen that one of the fish is mine.”  

Carson stares at Ronon's back as the Satedan lopes off in the direction of the kitchens.  His face feels a little warm, which he attributes to sunburn.  And his fishing clothes have dried stiff from splashed river water, so he heads for his room to change into something more comfortable and puts Ronon’s odd behavior out of his mind.  

  


Over the next two weeks, Ronon, without ever directly interacting with Carson, finds ways to give him

  * three pages of typed notes on a Manarian childhood sickness
  * two bottled waters
  * a somewhat scratchy space-goat yarn sweater
  * three cartons of jello, one of which is already opened



Although he’s appreciative, Carson is also somewhat baffled.  But then he remembers the knife sheath, and although this _does_ seem like a touch overkill if they’re meant as thank-you gifts, at least he can pin the influx of presents on a logical origin point.  

 

 

The door glides open with a dull hum, and Teyla steps into his room, smiling.  She’s carrying a tray from the mess hall, with what looks like a full helping of everything available at a standard Atlantis dinner, including a small carton of pudding balanced between Teyla’s thumb and forefinger.  

Carson hurriedly rises from his desk and takes the tray from her.  “Thank you, dear.  But someone could have just fetched me for supper.”

“Ronon asked me to bring this to you,” Teyla explains.  

Carson frowns and sets the tray down on the edge of his desk.  “I see.”

“Have you spoken with Ronon lately, Doctor?” Teyla asks, lingering at the edge of Carson’s room.

“Not lately.”  Carson eyes the pudding cup.  It’s his favorite flavor.  “Although he’s sending meals, now, apparently, which is a strange thing to do if he’s angry at me.”

Teyla purses her lips and nods.  “Perhaps you should make an effort to see him,” she suggests.  “I think you two would find much to talk about.”

Carson makes a quizzical noise that is the audio equivalent of a questionmark.  

Teyla just smiles and pats him on the shoulder.

  


Marie comes up to him in the infirmary when he’s just finishing bandaging Laura Cadman’s arm, and says, “Doctor, Dr. Mckay left this for you.”  She shows him an unopened yogurt cup.

Carson strips off a rubber gloves, reaches out, and takes the cup, his hands dusted with talcum powder from the interior of the gloves.  “Rodney did?”

“He said it was from Ronon,” Marie replies.  “He seemed annoyed about it.”

Carson laughs.  “Typical Rodney.”  He sets the pudding cup on the edge of the end table.  “You should go get lunch, I’ll stay with the patient.”  

Laura waits until Marie leaves before smirking and saying, “Ooh, looks like our Doctor’s being courted.”

“What? No!  What?” Carson sputters, blushing.

“He sends you gifts, he makes sure you’re eating well, and he takes you fishing.”  Laura ticks them off on her fingers and then scrunches her three raised fingers up and down.  “What there _doesn’t_ sound like dating to you?”

“Oh god.”  

“Wait.”  Laura frowns.  “You didn’t realize?”

From where he’s standing, Carson can see the anti-allergen plant sitting on the edge of his desk, the wide leaves misted with water from its daily watering.  “I thought he was just being a good friend.”

Laura kicks her legs a little.  “I guess I could be wrong.  Maybe it’s different on Sateda and _totally dating_ doesn’t indicate romantic interest.”

“Please stop.”  Carson grips her arm just beneath where it’s swathed in bandages, and she lets him pull her off the edge of the cot.

“Do you think maybe you should, I don’t know, talk to the guy who you’re _totally dating_ and ask him what his intentions are?”  Laura pauses and taps a finger against her lips.  “Or I could ask him?”

“Please don’t,” Carson pleads, hustling her out of the infirmary.  The last thing he needs is Laura Cadman trying to defend his honor.

“Fine, I won’t,” Laura says, rolling her eyes, “but you gotta talk to him, Beckett.”

Laura’s team is waiting for her in the hallway, and they troop off together, leaving Carson in the empty infirmary.

Carson rubs the bridge of his nose and slumps into his chair.  

It’s not like he’s never noticed how attractive Ronon is.  Ronon’s certainly a handsome man, with a belly laugh that makes Carson smile to hear it.  He thinks about all the presents Ronon has contrived to send him through third-parties; how Ronon’s face had lit up in the mess hall when Carson had been looking for a free place to sit one busy morning, and how he and Teyla had made room for Carson.  

The more Carson remembers, the more likely it seems that Cadman is correct.  

_Oh dear._

  
  
  
  
“Ronon!”  Carson catches up to Ronon in one of the many skyways; a glass-framed bridge cutting over the gap between two of Atlantis’s towers.  Below, the sea green water reflects light off the towers and bridges.  

Ronon turns, hands tucked into his pockets, and he grins when he sees Carson.  “Hey—”  His forehead furrows in a confused frown when Carson grips his elbow and hustles him out of the skyway, through a door that hums open when approached, and onto a balcony.

It’s warm — humid — and Carson is sweating from nerves, but he’s too nervous to take off his jacket.  

“What’s wrong?” Ronon asks.  

“Have you,” Carson starts, then stops, embarrassed, just in case he’s wrong about this whole thing.  Ronon just looks at him, one eyebrow raised quizzically.  “Do you like me?”

Ronon grins.  “Took you long enough.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Carson asks.

Ronon shrugs.  “Was waiting for you to get it.  Gift-giving on Earth didn’t seem that different from how it was on Sateda, so I figured you’d realize eventually.  Besides, you gave me that knife sheath first.”

“Oh.”  Carson pauses.  “ _Oh_.  I—ah—”

“You want it back?” Ronon asks, serious, turning to face Carson.  

“What?  No, I gave it to you,” Carson sighs, rubbing at his temple.

Ronon nods slowly.  “But you don’t want to be partners?”

“Is that what you thought we were?” Carson asks.

Ronon shrugs and doesn’t respond.  He seems to be waiting for Carson to say more.

“Oh God,” Carson says.  He scrubs at his cheeks with the heels of his palms, morning stubble tickling his palms.  

“You don’t like guys?” Ronon asks.

Carson flushes.  “No, I like both men and women,” he says.  It’s the first time he’s admitted it to anyone on Atlantis.

Ronon grunts in affirmation and folds his arms over his chest, the liquid sunlight turning the hairs on his arms gold.  “Is it that dad thing Sheppard told me about?” he asks

It takes Carson a moment to realize that Ronon is referring to DADT; when he does, he shakes his head.  “That’s — it’s U.S. military, and I’m Scottish, and also not military.”

“We don’t have to fuck if you don’t want to.”

“Ronon!”

Ronon subsides but continues looking evenly at Carson.  “If that’s what you’re freaked out about, we don’t have to do any of that stuff.  I’m cool with that.  Kinda would like to kiss you, though.  If you’re into that.”

Carson feels the tips of his ears burning.  “Why?”

Ronon folds his arms over the metal balcony and looks down at the water, greenery, and glinting metal of Atlantis’s center.  “Guess because I like you.”

There’s quiet for a moment, Ronon’s admission hanging in the air.  

Then Carson starts, “We could—,” and stops.  Ronon turns to look at him.  “If you’re alright with taking things slow, we could — ah — we could be partners.  I think—I think I’d like that,” he finishes quietly.  

Silence.

Then Ronon lets out a laugh that’s half a  _ whoop _ , and wraps Carson up in a bear hug.  Carson’s face is pressed against Ronon’s shoulder.  Both Ronon’s tan skin, and the coarse homespun of his shirt, are warm from the sun, and he smells like sweat and some unfamiliar, aromatic herb.  

“Ronon?” Carson gasps.  


“Yeah?”  He can hear the smile in Ronon’s voice, and it’s one of the best things he’s ever heard.  

Working one of his arms free, Carson awkwardly pats Ronon's shoulder.   “I think you’re bruising my ribs, lad.”

“...whoops.”  

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] manner of giving](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10867563) by [TwoMenAndAGuava (drakkynfyre47)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drakkynfyre47/pseuds/TwoMenAndAGuava)




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